“B-but I don’t see how he could carry it off!” said Horatia.
“Assure your ladyship, nothing simpler. Told him it was a wager.”
“D-did he believe it?” asked Horatia, round-eyed.
“Certainly!” said Sir Roland. “Told him we mistook his chaise for another’s. Plausible story—why not? But Pel thought you should be warned he was on his way.”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” she said. “But L-Lethbridge? My b-brooch?”
Sir Roland tucked his handkerchief away again. “Can’t make the fellow out,” he replied. “Ought to be home by now, instead of which—no sign of him. Pel and Heron are waiting on with Hawkins. Have to carry a message to Lady Winwood. Heron—very good sort of man indeed—can’t dine in South Street now. Must try to stop Lethbridge, you see. Beg you won’t let it distress you. Assure you—brooch shall be recovered. Rule suspects nothing—nothing at all, ma’am!”
Horatia trembled. “I d-don’t feel as though I can p-possibly face him!” she said.
Sir Roland, uneasily aware that she was on the brink of tears, retreated towards the door. “Not the slightest cause for alarm, ma’am. Think I should be going, however. Won’t do for him to find me here.”
“No,” agreed Horatia forlornly. “No, I s-suppose it won’t.”
When Sir Roland had bowed himself out she went slowly upstairs again, and to her bed-chamber, where her abigail was waiting to dress her. She had promised to join her sister-in-law at Drury Lane Theatre after dinner, and a grande toilette in satin of that extremely fashionable colour called Stifled Sigh was laid out over a chair. The abigail, pouncing on her to untie her laces, informed her that M. Fredin (pupil of that celebrated academician in coiffures, M. Leonard of Paris) had already arrived, and was in the powder-closet. Horatia said “Oh!” in a flat voice, and stepping out of her polonaise, listlessly permitted the satin underdress to be slipped over her head. She was put into her powdering-gown next, and then was delivered into the hands of M. Fredin.